


Lord Pendleton Memoirs. Chapter One.

by MundaneChampagne



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Audiographs of a dead man, Gen, Surrounded by strangeness, Treavor Pendleton recognizes one of his bastards, Who people become
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:03:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneChampagne/pseuds/MundaneChampagne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon was a servant boy who had nothing. Now he has everything: a manor house, a mountain of debt, a pompous solicitor, and a whole new set of expectations. Most importantly, he has a new name: Pendleton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord Pendleton Memoirs. Chapter One.

He stares up at the manor house, the weight of his bag heavy over his shoulder. "This is it?"

The well-dressed man beside him nods.

The mansion sits like a hulking toad in a swamp. The winter day is bleak, the trees are skeletal, and the only sounds are the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the crows cawing.

This doesn't feel real.

Simon feels like he is being watched. The curtains in the windows are drawn. Black drapes cover the old stonework. The house is dressed for mourning. The old owners are gone; now it has a new master.

Simon feels insignificant beside the house that is now his.

They arrive in front of the wooden doors, a patina etched across the brass decoration. The solicitor raises a hand and knocks sharply at the door.

The door creaks open. Simon swallows, feeling his throat bob. The man who opens the door is old, dusty, and dressed like a corpse at a funeral. He bows. "My Lord."

Simon isn't sure what to do. He settles for nodding in response.

The solicitor leads him into the entrance hall. The room soars above him. The ceiling is glass, letting in the low winter sun. The wood is dull with age, the floors are pale marble. More servants stand around the edge of the hall, clad in black and greys. There is no color in this world.

"This way," the solicitor says. Simon follows him, feeling the servants' stares on the back of his neck. None of them met his eyes when he looked at them, but they had no qualms about looking when his back was turned.

Probably scoping out the new master of the house.

There is a fire going in the parlor, but it only serves to show how dark and cold the rest of the room is. Wood paneling stretches to the ceiling.

Everything in this house is so big. And Simon is so small.

He sits on a dusty chaise lounge, and after a moment, the solicitor sits next to him. The man opens his case and removes a stack of paper. Simon sets his teeth. The past few days have been nothing but paperwork—documents, signatures, wills and bills. He suspects that the paperwork is mostly theatre; a way to bring a certain legal sensibility to the proceedings of the wealthy and notable. But the solicitors take it seriously, so he plays along.

He shivers. The solicitor gives him a look. "My Lord, there are just a few remaining formalities…"

Simon nods, tuning out the details. He signs where required, and finally the man stands and files his papers away. "Now that you have possession of the house, there should be no delays. I will send people to collect your belongings."

Simon's eyes widen. "Wait—so I'm actually supposed to live here?"

The solicitor quirks an eyebrow. "You are the Lord Pendleton. This is your house. Where else would you go?"

"I was kind of hoping I could stay in the apartment with my mother—" Simon mumbles, knowing that he sounds like a petulant child.

"And live with servants?" The solicitor is horrified. "My Lord, there are ways things are _done_ among the nobility. You are now one of them. You are expected to behave as a Lord of Dunwall. And that includes _taking possession of your ancestral home_."

Simon fights down the lump in his throat. "Yes sir."

The solicitor looks down at him. For a moment, Simon expects some reassurance, some comforting words. But that was too much to hope for. "I will be in the study," the man says. "We still have yet to go over the family finances. The butler will show you around. When you are settled in—"

Simon interrupts. "Sir, can the finances wait until tomorrow?"

The solicitor pauses, and nods. A weight lifts from Simon's shoulders. At least he has some time to think. His head hasn't stopped spinning for days.

On Monday he had been a servant boy, scrubbing floors, polishing silverware, and dusting bookcases. On Tuesday a man he didn't know knocked on the apartment door, confirmed the address, then shoved a will in his face and congratulated him on his new title. Simon initially thought the whole thing was a mistake. But there was no mistaking it. "…the firstborn son of Mary Elizabeth Waters, formerly in the employment of Lord Treavor Pendleton…is hereby named heir to the Pendleton estate and all its assets…"

And now it was Friday, and he was being led through this cavernous house— _his_ cavernous house—and being given an extremely thorough rundown of the family history by the butler— _his_ butler.

The gallery seemed to stretch on forever. Portraits of stern men and women with pinched faces glared down at him. The butler continued his monologue as their footsteps rang through the hall. "..and this, my Lord, is a portrait of your father, the Lord Pendleton, and his brothers, Lords Custis and Morgan. We recently recovered it on the black market. A stroke of luck that this chapter of the family history had not been lost. The portrait was done by Anton Sokolov, you know, a valuable piece of art indeed…"

He could pick out the twins easily enough. They look like River Krusts—innocuous enough from a distance, but with expressions that said they could be extremely dangerous if messed with. He privately is very grateful they are dead—presumed dead—because he knows his new life is complex enough without two men such as these in it.

Then there is the man on the left. Treavor Pendleton, he supposed. The name _father_ does not cross his mind. There is no connection, at least not to Simon. The man huddled in the background of the painting, slightly washed out compared to the twins. He looked slightly like an old and sad hound. There was a weariness to the face—and a wariness as well—careful not to intrude. Simon figures that the younger man had been overshadowed by his brothers for a long time. Then the twins vanished—the wanted posters on every street corner—the rapid ascension of the younger Lord Pendleton to the position of Prime Minister—then his sudden death, along with the newly minted Lord Regent, and the High Overseer as well. These were troubled times in Dunwall. And Simon never expected that they would touch his life in such a large way.

He bows his head, suddenly overwhelmed and dizzy. There is no going back. This is his life now—somber servants, echoing halls, and all manner of dusty things. He wouldn't mind being back in his old employer's house, breaking his back scrubbing floors. Anything familiar. Anything safe.

"Excuse me." He interrupts the butler's monologue. "It's been a long day. I guess if I'm living here—is there a bed?"

The butler looks slightly affronted by the presumption that there may not be a bed. "Of course, my Lord," he says. "I am very sorry to tire you. Let me show you the master bedroom—unless, of course, you would prefer your father's old room. It is a bit smaller."

"That's fine," Simon says. He needs something small right now, at a scale he can grapple with.

Even a small room in a lordly manor is intimidating. The room clearly hasn't been used in some time. "The late Lord Pendleton was not staying at home very often during the last few months," the butler explains. Simon nods. The butler takes the gesture as a dismissal, bowing on his way out.

Simon sits on the bed and a puff of dust rises from the coverlet. The bed is a handsome four poster, with dark grey curtains. The coverlet is embroidered with tarnished gold thread—motifs of birds and vines dance over the surface.

The room lacks personality. The vanity and desk are bare. There are no objects anywhere, no personal touches, to tell Simon what kind of person his father might have been. He only knows a little—his mother explained to him after the man left on Tuesday.

She'd worked for the Pendletons for a number of years, she'd said. It was a secure job, and kept her fed and under a roof. Her situation became less secure when Pendleton had turned an eye to her.

That was all she said. Simon drew his own conclusions.

He lies back on the bed, and stares up at the canopy, which is also grey. He can't imagine how anyone could be happy, living in a place like this. He's never felt more alone in his life.

 

The next day, the solicitor returns, eager to discuss finance. He takes the old leather chair in the study, and spreads his papers across the desk.

It's not good. The man spreads his hands. "I'm afraid you're broke, my Lord."

Simon squeezes the armrests of his chair and blinks. "I thought nobles were rich."

The solicitor ignores the bluntness of the comment. "The Pendleton family fortune is no longer secure…you do own several silver mines, but production has steadily declined over the last few years. I would recommend either selling the land and the slaves, or—"

"Hang on. Slaves?"

The solicitor looks peeved. "Yes. To work the mines."

"They don't get paid?" Simon is indignant. The life of a servant was not glamorous, but at least he gets paid for his work.

"It is not the custom—well, you don't have to decide today." The solicitor returns to his papers. "There's also the questions of debt. Lords Custis and Morgan spent a great deal on…luxury goods. And Lord Treavor was making a lot of investments that didn't pan out." He slides a sheet of paper to Simon, whose eyes grow big at the figures contained within.

"But that's a fortune!"

The solicitor grimaces. "It may seem so to you, but there is very little there for upkeep of the manor, never mind other investments that need to be made."

Simon sits back. "I don't know anything about money. I know how to put food on the table for a few coin a day, and I know where the best secondhand shops are, but I can't do this." His eyes are on the solicitor, pleading. "I don't suppose there's enough money to hire someone to deal with it? Or maybe you—?"

The solicitor sits back. "My Lord, I have been retained by the Pendleton family for years to deal with legal matters. Finance is not my expertise. However…I have worked with several reliable accountants before. I will see what I can do to get someone cleaning up this mess."

Simon exhales. "Thank you sir."

"One more thing." The solicitor opens his case again. "These were discovered in a trunk that was tossed into the river. They were recorded by your late father. No one has listened to them yet; that is your right." The man hands over a bundle of audiograph cards. They are slightly wrinkled, but probably still playable. The name "Lord Pendleton" is scribbled across the top. Simon takes them with a shaking hand.

He isn't sure if he wants to hear them. Nevertheless, he asks if there is an audiograph player. The solicitor nods. "I believe there is one…" He bends down and looks underneath the desk. "Ah. Yes." He hauls it out. Simon takes it in his arms, awkwardly holding the stack of cards in one hand as he clutches the player.

He brings the audiograph player up to the bedroom. The machine is heavy, and he has to open the door with his back due to his lack of available hands. He turns around, intending to set the player on the desk, and startles. There's a maid in the room, dusting the desk. She jumps as well. "Forgive me, my Lord. I was just cleaning out a little."

Simon is familiar with dusting. Outsider knows the house needs it. He's dusted many things for many people, but this is the first time that he is on the other side, having things dusted for him. He doesn't know what to do. "I can get that later," he says. "It's no problem."

The maid bows. "I'll return later."

"No—I mean, I can dust it myself. It's fine."

She looks horrified. "But, my Lord—"

Simon squeezes his eyes closed. "And don't call me that." The title, the formality—his nerves are already stretched to the breaking point, and having people pay obeisance to him isn't helping. "Just—leave. Please."

She bows low and backs out of the doorway. Simon instantly feels awful. He's been snapped at by irate employers enough in his life. Is this what he is becoming? Does simply having a title and money turn people into monsters?

He sets the audiograph player on the desk, but doesn't move to play any of the recordings. Instead, he moves to the vanity and stares at himself in the mirror, trying to find any trace of the person he'd always been.

After a moment, he understands why his mother rarely looks him in the face.

He looks too much like his father.

 

He takes a nap, and when he wakes up, he knows he won't be able to avoid the audiographs.

Simon secretly hopes they've been too damaged by water to be played. There is no such luck. He picks one out of the stack at random, and hesitates to play it. But it plays just fine. A scratchy recording rings out in the quiet room.

"This was never my idea. He knows that. Certainly I am not completely guiltless, but with my position, he would be a fool to come for me."

Simon leans in, intrigued. This is not what he expected. Who was Lord Pendleton referring to?

"…if he does, I have so much to offer. Extensive business opportunities. So he'll see reason, if it comes to that."

The audiograph player clicks off and spits the card out. Simon leans back. Sounded like some shady business. He'd write it off as the normal corruption of the nobility, but there is a note of fear in the voice which surprises him.

Curious, he puts that card aside and tries another.

"My furnishings have been installed at last, with no small amount of complaining by that antiquated boatman. The others have no idea what it is like to suffer as I have."

Simon snorts. He doubts that Lord Pendleton ever truly suffered in his life.

The audio gets quieter. "Speaking of which—Wallace! Please breathe two bottles of Dunwall red—never mind which—and fetch a clean glass." The volume increases again. "Ah well. I'll begin again tomorrow."

The next card: "Lord Pendleton Memoirs, chapter 27. In my thirteenth year, the despised stepmother at last departed, and Pendleton Hall was again quiet, although Father had by then sunk into deep depression. It was at this sensitive time that Waverly Boyle first entered my life, she who will be source of many tender recollections to come."

Well. This was definitely getting into more personal territory. He knows of the Ladies Boyle by reputation, and then it occurs to him that he may have to meet them at some point. Simon shudders at the thought. They are known for cruelty. Most of Dunwall's nobility is.

The next card is only half filled. There is an angry shout when he plays it. "That is not the vintage I asked you for, you half-wit ox!" Simon jumps as something crashes in the background. "No matter, just set it down. Leave both bottles and get out." The voice is pathetic. "I'm trying to write my memoirs."

Simon winces. He's rapidly coming to some conclusions about his father, and they are not flattering ones. There was the drinking, for a start. Simon swears he will never touch a glass of the stuff in his life. Not if it will turn him into a pathetic, sniveling man, like the one recording the audiographs. Nothing left of a man but an unflattering painting, and unhappy audiographs. Simon doesn't know what he wants out of life. He is much less sure of his future now than ever before. And yet—what will he leave behind when he is dead?

Something better than this, he vows.

One more card. "Lord Pendleton Memoirs, chapter 41. In which I bed two of the Boyle women, and only missed the third by virtue of some inclement weather..."

Simon's eyes bug out of his head and he stops the recording. That's enough for today. Perhaps enough for a lifetime.

 

The solicitor wrinkles his nose at Simon's equally wrinkled clothing. "You should dress to befit your station," he says.

Simon looks down at his clothes. They are ordinary workman's garb, slightly too big for him; bought secondhand, but he is still growing. "I don't really have anything else," he says.

The solicitor waves a hand. "Yes you do. Look in the wardrobes. Find a few suits you like and you can have them tailored to fit properly."

Tailoring is expensive. Simon can't wrap his head around the idea that he can afford it now. "I'll see what I can find," he says.

He starts with the wardrobe in his room. Most of the outfits make him shudder. Beiges and tans, most with high collars and cravats.

He does find one thing at the very back. It looks like it's never been worn. Instead of the extravagant collar and intricate trimmings, this suit is cut conservatively. The lines are simple. The fabric is a rich navy. It looks like something he'd find illustrated in an old book. Simon likes it immediately.

It fits him too, with a little room to spare. He'll grow into it well. He's only 16, but has shot up considerably in the past few years. Simon brushes away the thought that he resembles his father in build as well as face.

 

He hasn't seen his mother in a few days. Simon feels guilty, and eventually sidesteps the solicitor's constant attentions and makes it back to the city proper.

It feels like a lifetime since he'd been here last.

He knocks on his apartment door, and his mother opens it. She does a double take when she sees him in the suit, but recovers and pulls him into a hug. "It's so good to have you home," she says. "It's been too quiet here."

"It's too quiet at that stupid manor," he says. "It's too big and too gloomy."

She smiles. "Yes, it always was that way."

"Mother," Simon begins, "I can't do this."

Her face hardens. "It isn't up to you."

"At least come and stay with me at the manor," he pleads. "I miss you."

"Oh Simon." She sits him down at the table and sits across from him. "I can't go back. I'll never set foot in that house again. There are just too many unpleasant memories."

Tears prick at his eyes. "If I have nice things," he said, "you should too. You shouldn't have to work as a servant."

She relaxes, and smiles again. "I love you, Simon. But please understand how I feel about this."

He nods, and she gets up and puts on the kettle.

There is a pause. "He hated that suit," his mother says.

"Well _I_ like it," Simon says, and smiles, knowing that in the end, he is his own person. And he always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I'll ever do anything more with this. As for now, it stands on its own. If anyone wants to run further with it, please feel free, just let me know.


End file.
